


Coins

by Sheriarty



Series: Blank Spaces [6]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Eames can actually be adorable, M/M, POV Arthur (Inception), and Arthur is helpless against it, it's a secret power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheriarty/pseuds/Sheriarty
Summary: Four years after they had their fight - and then they get hired again on a job by an extractor called Zimmermann. Their first meeting is a stiff affair, but something must have happened two days later, because they suddenly start to interact again, instead of ignoring each other - What did Cobb miss?
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Blank Spaces [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1509056
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	Coins

**Author's Note:**

> Another interlude - this one happens right after their first interaction after Zimmermann hires them! I should probably start to make a list for when to read what lol

**Coins**

Arthur knows they need this job. There really is no reason for Cobb to corner him in the fucking hotel room, not even half an hour after arriving, to try and give him some sort of talk like a goddamn consulting teacher.

He is a professional. He can ignore people he hates. He can ignore _the incident_.

And Cobb can stop acting as if Arthur is going to have a fit or break down crying when he sees that alpha again.

The worried stares of the blonde beta are almost more annoying than the forger himself.

Almost.

It riles him up like nothing else that Cobb weasels around him like a guard in charge of a psychotic inmate, waiting for a sign to needing to use his stun gun. Just because he lost countenance once. Once! Cut him some slack, he wasn’t on meds back then and he was fucking twenty-three and had never before crossed path with a compatible person. It is not his fault that a pheromone sledgehammer like that left him reeling a little. It’s been four years; he is over it.

He doesn’t even know what Cobb’s problem is. Did he make a scene this morning when Eames came in? No. No, he didn’t. He was perfectly calm. Fine, it hadn’t sat right with him watching Eames interact with that omega girl, sue him. Maybe he had felt the unbidden urge to ram her face into Cobb’s 3D supermarket model and tell her to back the fuck off his mate – it isn’t as if he acted on that urge. Cobb moving to stand in his way like sacrificing himself to the greater good had been completely unnecessary.

Maybe his stomach had lurched at the sight of Eames coming into the room. Maybe his heart had started pounding against his chest. Maybe his throat had constricted. Maybe a mix of shame and desire gone stale had poured into his veins, mixing with burning anger, re-awoken at the sight of him. Slumbering, old rage being poked into wakefulness once more, lifting its ugly head from where it had been sleeping, curled up, somewhere deep in his guts. Yes. Fine. Maybe he isn’t completely over it.

Can anyone fault him for these ugly remnants of embarrassment and bitterness? No one who didn’t have their compatible counterpart, their mate, reject them like that, can give Arthur any shit for his feelings. No one has the fucking right to judge him. They don’t know what happened, what Eames did. They don’t know how it felt to be humiliated like that. No one in that room knows how he feels. Least of all Cobb.

Cobb can be glad Arthur is a fucking professional. He would be in every right to throttle Eames with his tie. And then throw him to the ground and bite his fucking neck until he bleeds and howls for Arthur. Arthur groans as he bangs his forehead against the tiles of the shower while jerking off, a mix of shame and desire making him want to brain himself. He had been _fine_. He had been _over_ it.

Watching the white mingle with the water of the shower slowly going down the drain, he has to admit to himself – he isn’t over it.

He hates himself a little. He hates Eames.

* * *

He hates Eames and he hates Cobb for making them meet up in the bakery around the corner from their working place the next morning (Well, okay maybe that isn’t Cobb’s fault, per se, but ultimately it is). The hair on his neck prickle when he hears the little doorbell ring as the door swings open to announce more customers and he doesn’t have to turn to know who it is and that alone makes him want to put his face into his hands and groan in defeat.

The line of customers move, two more before him and Arthur contemplates, just for a second, to turn around and leave, because he knows Eames will have to get into line behind him. But Arthur resolutely keeps standing where he is, because he won’t give in, won’t show how much the alpha’s presence affects him. He is not going to give in, he isn’t going to put his tail between his legs and leg it. Fuck Eames and his stupid crooked grin and his broad shoulders and his scent-

“Fancy seeing you here,” Eames’ voice is like warm honey poured onto his senses and Arthur wants to scream to the ceiling at the unfairness of it all. He doesn’t, of course. Instead he briefly closes his eyes, breathing through his mouth. Why does he have such an impact on him? It isn’t fucking fair. Fucking alphas. Fuck his own senses. Arthur has never hated his own sharp instincts as much as he loathes them right now. He should have increased his meds after noticing how bad it was yesterday morning already. Why is he so proud? Sometimes he hates his own pride.

“What do you want,” Arthur answers under his breath, after realizing he should probably at least acknowledge the alpha’s words. Ignoring him completely would be petulant, even if Arthur would be in every right to do so.

He doesn’t turn around when he sees Eames coming to step next to him instead of behind him in line and Arthur narrows his eyes, resisting the urge to let his eyes flicker to the side to watch him.

“How are you?”

Okay, Arthur can’t help his head turning sideways now to give the alpha a disbelieving stare. How are you? Really? Is he for _real_?

Eames is not looking at him with what Arthur had thought would be a mean, leering grin or a sarcastic sneer or hell whatever else – no, the alpha isn’t looking at him at all, but staring down at his wallet, where he is playing with his coins, apparently counting to see if he can afford his coffee or the like. Arthur bristles, anger bubbling up his throat, because fuck him, fuck him for not even fucking looking-

Eames’ eyes do flicker up to him then, big, grey-blue eyes and he ducks his head and pulls his shoulders up, before his gaze drops again to his hands and then he twitches and coins drop to the floor with tiny, clinking noises and Eames curses, grabbing after it and missing, almost dropping the whole wallet, before he quickly crouches down to try and collect the cents and euros rolling around. He is so twitchy his fingers shake too violently to get the coins off the floor, fingernails too blunt to scrap them off.

Arthur stares, wide-eyed, too dumbstruck to do anything else but watch Eames, crouched to his feet, trying and failing to get his money off the floor. Only when the woman before Arthur turns and makes moves to reach down and help, does Arthur wake from his stupor. He is quick to crouch down and snatch the coin she had been reaching for from under her fingers and when she looks at him with a frown, he gives her a hearty glare that clearly asserts who decides, here in this situation, who is allowed to help the alpha and, newsflash, it isn’t her. She knows when to keep her hand to herself, clever girl, and gets up again with an eye roll, turning to the counter, seeing it’s her turn anyway.

Arthur turns his attention to the coins littered around them, picking up one and two euro coins and a few of the cents, neither of them looking at each other, even when their hands briefly touch, reaching for the same coin by Eames’ right foot.

Straightening back up, Eames is still not looking up from where he is putting the coins he collected back into the wallet, but his whole face is red and Arthur can see sweat at his temples and brows. Something in Arthur’s chest constricts at the sight. Eames is so fucking _nervous_ , he is sweating. Arthur can’t help but stare. Eames is _blushing_. Nimble-fingered, clever pick-pocketing Eames. Nervous enough to drop his coppers like an idiot in front of him. And here Arthur thought Eames would be as cocksure and demeaning as always, acting as if nothing happened between them. As if he didn’t care at all about what had been between them, what _is_ between them. What they _are_. No, now he’s standing here, as much of a nervous wreck as Arthur feels and unable to mask it, even though he is the actor of the two of them.

“Here,” Arthur says, holding out his hand and Eames looks up briefly, almost resigned about his own idiocy and holds out a hand, fingertips still trembling.

“Thanks, luv,” he mutters, before realizing what slipped out and wincing, which almost makes the coins drop a second time, when Arthur tips his own hand over and let it fall into his open palm. Arthur automatically reaches out with both hands to steady Eames’ and the touch is warm, soft and leaves them both completely reeling for a few seconds. He hears Eames swallow once Arthur draws his hands back and he harrumphs, before letting the rest of the coins slide back into the wallet as well.

“Was darf’s sein?” Both Eames and Arthur might have flinched a little at the interruption, the salesperson by the counter looking at them expectantly, one eyebrow raised in slight amusement. Arthur only now realize they are probably making quite a scene in the bakery.

“Zwei große Kaffee, einmal schwarz, einmal Milch und Zucker, eins der Schokoladen Croissants, zwei Bretzel – You want a pretzel to your coffee? And you're okay with cheese?“ Eames starts, looking at Arthur briefly, who blinks, than nods, still a little dazed, “- Zwei Bretzel, und noch zwei der belegten Brötchen, eins Käse, eins Schinken, bitte.“

Eames pays and hands Arthur one of the pretzel and one of the bread roll with cheese, lettuce and tomato. They stand to the side by one of the small high tables, waiting for their coffees. Arthur stares down at his pretzel and somehow all the anger he had been feeling not even five minutes ago has vanished, leaving him in a strange suspense. He looks up to Eames, who has broken of a piece of his pretzel and is munching on it, fiddling with something in his jacket pocket with his other hand.

He must notice Arthur’s stare because he looks up, blinks. His face is still a little pink and he averts his eyes briefly, swallows and then holds up his pretzel, like some kind of stupid olive branch, even though Arthur has a perfectly fine pretzel himself and doesn’t need some dumb bitten off piece of – Arthur breaks a piece off it and maybe he holds onto Eames’ wrist to do it and their hands touch more than they need. _I’m a weak, weak man_ , Arthur thinks, as he chews on the pretzel and watches Eames tentatively smiling at him. He doesn’t even like pretzels.

When they arrive at their momentary workplace this morning, Arthur doesn't feel like stoically ignoring Eames any longer. He doesn't feel like ripping Eames’ balls off and feeding them to him either, anymore. And when Eames quips at him a little later about his different colored highlighters, Arthur throws one at him, delights on the inside at the indignant noise of surprise when it hits, and then proceeds to roast Eames' impersonation of the secretary, throwing his research about her at him.

The alpha gives him a leer, but Arthur sees the nervousness in the twitch around his lips, knows that Eames is uncertain of their dynamic, unsure what he is allowed to do. Arthur throws another highlighter to ensure him that he is okay with it.

They make a habit out of it.


End file.
